“Las Vegas, I'm tellin' you—all the greasers air leavin' the range,” he said.
“Howdy, Abe!” replied Las Vegas. “What 'n hell you talkin' about?”
The man repeated his information. And Las Vegas spat out frightful curses.
“Abe—you heah what Beasley's doin'?”
“Yes. He's with his men—up at the ranch. Reckon he can't put off ridin' down much longer.”
That was where the West spoke. Beasley would be forced to meet the enemy who had come out single-handed against him. Long before this hour a braver man would have come to face Las Vegas. Beasley could not hire any gang to bear the brunt of this situation. This was the test by which even his own men must judge him. All of which was to say that as the wildness of the West had made possible his crimes, so it now held him responsible for them.
“Abe, if thet—greaser don't rustle down heah I'm goin' after him.”
“Sure. But don't be in no hurry,” replied Abe.
“I'm waltzin' to slow music.... Gimme a smoke.”
With fingers that slightly trembled Abe rolled a cigarette, lit it from his own, and handed it to the cowboy.